Snow
by BlueNeutrino
Summary: Fischer won't be convinced by poor imitations. Arthur helps Eames perfect the exact texture of snow.


Bank notes, poker chips, passports, credit cards...all of them come to him like second nature, yet the precise texture of snow is one forgery that eludes him. Sure, he can paint a pretty picture—got his Alpine fortress rendered in point-perfect concrete, blanketed his mountain tops in cake-frosting white, yet when he reaches down to scoop up the snow in his hands, all it makes him think of is dirt. Slightly lumpy, the texture belonging to gritty sand. He's felt more chill from the egg drawer of his refrigerator.

Too loose and powdery. _Snow can be powdery, right?_ It's been too long since he saw the stuff in real life.

A scowl spreads across Eames' face as he tugs off his remaining glove and reaches down again, as if expecting better results with his other hand, but there's little improvement to be found when he grabs another fistful and feels it trickle through his fingers like flour. Straightening, the shadow of something on the mountainside that hadn't been there before catches his eye.

"You shouldn't be here." Eames turns and directs his scowl at the figure standing some twenty feet away. There are no footprints behind him, though Eames isn't sure which of them is to blame for that.

"You're in my hotel room," comes the reply in a tone of exasperation that makes Eames think _typical Arthur. _"On my bed. I was going to wake you up the old fashioned way, but then I thought you might be doing something important."

"Or, I could have been doing something entirely frivolous that I didn't want you intruding on."

"You want to do that, get your own hotel room."

Eames pouts, feeling overdressed in his skiing gear as Arthur stands brazenly among the snow in no more than a grey vest and blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "You couldn't even dream up a coat? I know I'm failing miserably, but you don't have to rub it in."

"It looks fine to me."

"It isn't even cold."

One of Arthur's eyebrows creeps up. "Is that why the air conditioning's on full blast? Thought I'd stepped into a freezer when I walked into the room."

"For all the good it's done."

Arthur shrugs, takes a few paces closer that leave behind indistinct footprints in the white. "Or, it's having the opposite effect. You're just making more work for your brain when your body's already readjusted its baseline temperature to the cold."

"Thanks for your input, Arthur. Didn't ask."

That was unnecessarily harsh. "Pardon me for breathing," Arthur mumbles, crouching down to scoop up his own handful of snow. "You've been in Mombasa too long if you can't remember cold weather."

"I can remember it fine. I just can't _recreate _it."

"Hm." Arthur straightens, still studying the cloying powder in his hand, and then without warning, turns and flings it into Eames' face.

Too late, Eames throws up a hand, his scowl turning to a look of shock as he stumbles back, wiping the snow from his eyes. "What was that in aid of?"

"Well, you're struggling to make it cold and wet. Thought I'd give your brain a boost." Already, Arthur is fleeing, making it ten steps before Eames' retaliatory snowball collides with his back. The lump shatters on impact, exploding into a puff of white that clings to his shirt in a thin layer of dust.

"That chilly enough for you?"

"It's your dream. You tell me."

They exchange rounds again, and as Eames runs through the snow, he swears this time he feels an actual _crunch _beneath his boots. "Here, take _that._" Another ball of snow—larger, firmer—thumps and crumbles against Arthur's chest.

He staggers back, then recovers with a glint in his eye. "That the best you got?"

Eames sees what he's planning too late to avoid it. The next burst of snow comes in a loose flurry flung from open palms, landing in his eyes, then Arthur has collided with Eames' shoulders and shoved him into the thick blanket of white coating the ground.

The landing is soft, and cold, the pair of them tumbling down together as the snow beneath them loosens and they slide several metres across the mountainside. When they come to a stop, Eames glances over at Arthur half-buried in the snow still wearing no more than shirtsleeves, and sees him shivering. "I-I think you've got it."

Eames grins. "I think I do."

Somewhere far above them, there comes a groan: the awakening of thousands of tons of snow suddenly discovering its own weight.

Arthur glances nervously upwards. "Great. You think we could wake up now before you start an avalanche?"


End file.
